


In Defense of Banksy (And The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known)

by thepizzasitter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Heaven & Hell, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Neck Kissing, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), can i get a wahoo, crowley and aziraphale took one look at each other and saw that it was Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 12:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20174254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepizzasitter/pseuds/thepizzasitter
Summary: "No," he admitted. “I couldn’t see things as they did, because they were in love every time they painted. You’re entirely correct. Love is what makes it art, to me.” He wanted so badly to be fearless. Instead, he supposed, he must be brave. To continue onward in spite of the fear and hope that Crowley wouldn’t hate him for it. "But...if they had been you, I think I would have made a very good painter indeed." Alternatively, an angel and a demon with two brain cells between them get stuck in the rain, have a chat about Banksy, and ultimately get their act together.





	In Defense of Banksy (And The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known)

**Author's Note:**

> How many cliches can we fit into one quick fic? We're about to find out! Kathleen's prompts were rain, Banksy (thanks to Michael Sheen's protection of his art), and being known. I hope this fulfills your every wish, my friend! If there are any major problems or I misspelled someone's name, do tell me! I can only type 'Aziraphale' so many times before words become meaningless.
> 
> The rain was written to La Vie En Rose (With Rain) As always, my love scenes are written to Insatiable by Darren Hayes because it makes me feel feelings.

Being caught unawares in the rain while in London is rather like being surprised that the sun is here to stay and will, in fact, be back in the morning.

Then again, Crowley felt no one could judge them about the whole ordeal given that Armageddon had been averted less than a month ago and he _was_ rather surprised the sun continued to rise and fall each day.

Even so, he was also more than a little embarrassed by his sodden state. And he was cold. He could be forgiven some grumbling, bless it all, it wasn’t _his_ idea to cut back on the miracles until they were sure that Head Office was well and truly distracted.

“Come closer, my dear, we’ll be in the safety of the bookshop soon enough,” Aziraphale murmured, gently pulling him under the umbrella, and Crowley couldn’t help but think of the other moments Aziraphale had sheltered him from the rain. Notably, of course, there was Eden, but it was only the first of countless sodden moments that were made warmer and brighter by the angel’s presence.

“Should’ve brought the Bentley,” Crowley muttered for the fifth time in as many minutes, though it came out a garbled, chattering mess. “Remind me again why you wanted to _walk_ the whole bloody way to the park?”

“Hush, darling. Save your words for when you aren’t liable to bite your poor tongue clean off,” the angel said, smiling gently and taking his arm to better navigate them. Crowley was immediately grateful for the cold. It would certainly explain away any blush that was currently trying to occupy his face. It wouldn’t do to go and cock it all up now, not when they’d fought so hard to keep their friendship without having to look over their shoulders all the time.

Anything beyond that was nearly unfathomable. If he ever inexplicably decided Crowley was somehow worthy of his romantic affections…well, there was no sense in dreaming of things far out of reach, but Crowley couldn’t always help himself.

“And I wanted to get a bit of inspiration! While not having to file any paperwork has been absolute bliss, we now have quite a bit of time on our hands. More so than usual, anyways. I want to try new things, take up a hobby or two! I’ve been thinking of painting again, you know. I thought perhaps something along the way would strike me enough to put onto canvas, but the rain has rather made a mess of that plan.”

“Trying new things, he says. Who are you and what have you done with my angel?” Crowley slurred, stumbling a bit when a very rude puddle came out of nowhere to attack him.

By the time they made it to the shop, Crowley was in a daze, body trying to compensate for the loss of heat by shutting down a number of other functions that would be fatal to a normal human. He was aware of Aziraphale fretting, bundling him indoors and onto the couch without much help from the demon, but he could hardly focus on anything that wasn’t distracting himself from the pins and needles making their way into his skin.

“…oh, and they’re like ice! You should have said, Crowley, a miracle here are there shouldn’t get us into too much trouble, especially little ones like that. You really needn’t suffer so, I’m sorry I ever said anything about frivolous—”

Crowley was deaf to the words, focusing instead on the soft, concerned tone and the way the angel held his hands between his own, rubbing at them and breathing against them to try and warm them up. He squirmed and made a sound he hoped came across as inquisitive rather than uncomfortable, because really the angel could keep doing that forever if no one minded.

“Let me go fetch some blankets and a bit of cocoa to speed the process along,” Aziraphale said, untangling their fingers. If Crowley frowned and leaned into the space where the angel had already vacated, well, he was delirious from the cold and everyone could shut the hell up and mind their thrice-blessed business.

He must have dozed for a moment, because he startled when he felt a warm blanket being tucked around his shoulders. “Lean forward a bit, dear,” Aziraphale coaxed, and he drowsily moved to comply, sighing when a towel began drying his hair.

“Feels good,” he murmured, blinking in surprise when Aziraphale brushed a hand along his cheek.

“I have some clothes you can use while we dry yours,” the angel said, holding out a small pile that Crowley recognized as similar to his pajamas from the flat. He usually didn’t wear a stitch to bed, but when Aziraphale had stayed over, he’d been too afraid of his reaction to his angel’s close sleeping proximity to do anything but resign himself to some black silk number that had vanished into a drawer somewhere after Adam brought the bookshop back.

“Thanks, angel,” he said tiredly, and snapped his fingers to change. Hell could _deal with it_. “M’gonna kip on your couch later if that’s alright with you? Don’t wanna drive like this.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Can’t be any more dangerous that your usual conduct behind the wheel, but you know you’re always welcome here, dear boy.” He handed off the cocoa he’d made, and Crowley inhaled the smell, letting it clear his mind a bit.

“What would you have painted if it hadn’t rained?” He asked, curiosity stirring now that he could focus a little better. He hadn’t ever known Aziraphale to be anything but a patron of the arts. The thought of him wielding a paintbrush, turning all of that angelic determination towards anatomy and color theory was…well, he hadn’t expected that to be an alluring image, but basically everything the angel did was alluring to him, so he decided not to examine that one too closely.

“Oh, I rather thought the new Banksy we passed might be a place to start! I very much liked the theme of this one, and I thought I might create an answering work, something to complement the theme—one of many in that piece, of course, it is Banksy after all—of turning ashes into joy.” His eyes practically sparkled with delight, and the small wiggle that accompanied his words made Crowley grin.

“Really. You, angel, condoning graffiti? Didn’t think you had it in you.”

A flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder in the distance did precisely nothing to deter Aziraphale from making his point, but it certainly drew attention to the sudden rigidness of his spine.

“Oh hush, private property was one of _yours_, if you recall, and anything made with that much love can only be art, whether or not it’s technically _allowed_,” he said decisively, eyes cold and looking somewhere just past Crowley’s shoulder.

There was something vehement about it, and Crowley wondered when he’d had this argument before. Private property might be one of his, but angels were sticklers for rules, even ones that humans made.

There was no way Gabriel approved of an artist like Banksy.

Aziraphale, for his part, was well-prepared to defend graffiti as an art, but Crowley was eternally surprising him with his perception.

“So wait, if something is made with love, that’s what makes it art to you?”

Oh, he forgot sometimes how deeply Crowley knew and understood him. It caught him unawares on occasion, and he’d long since developed the rather damning habit of wanting to cry every time.

“Yes,” he finally replied, a bit choked up.

They lapsed into silence, each contemplating the ramifications of being known so intimately by another being while still wanting to be closer, always closer. Suddenly, Crowley seemed too far away, sitting alone on the couch.

“Did you ever draw?” Aziraphale asked quietly, looking away, wishing he could see Crowley’s eyes. “When it was the thing to do, I mean.”

“Only a little and very poorly,” Crowley quoted, smiling in that soft way that never failed to make Aziraphale’s heart beat faster. His corporation had dealt with his admiration—his yearning—for so long. It knew the best ways to release the electricity that raced under his skin, through his very essence, and it had been a long time since he tried to stop it from its chosen forms of self-expression.

“I tried it, for a bit. I had little talent for it, since I’ve always preferred the written word, but I had many excellent teachers. Banksy makes me think of them, of their wild natures. If they lived today, so many of them would be infinitely freer to express what they tried to give the world. They were…the world has stifled so many brilliant souls, destroyed the love they were capable of. Or abused it until there was no solace but Death.” He tried not to weep, knew he was trying and failing to leave Crowley out of this.

Crowley was good, and gentle, with an artist’s heart and an engineer’s mind. He was perfect the way he was, but that was exactly his point. Why—_how_ could anyone look at such a heart and reject it? How could they ask _him_ to exist on this earth beside Crowley and demand that he _not_ fall irrevocably in love with someone who was meant to be the better half of his soul? It wasn’t just ineffable, it was downright unjustifiable.

There was not as much need to hide now, at least. Their friendship had been a steady constant since the Garden, though he hadn’t been able to acknowledge it until far more recently. Like the art they discussed, it had evolved into so many different things throughout the centuries. Its core, however, remained very much the same.

And now he was free to choose Crowley, had finally allowed himself to want as he had when a church had crumbled around them and all that was left was the two of them and some books…

Their pace had always been his to set, his to determine, and he’d been content to hedge his bets and hope for more time_, just a bit more, please don’t make me choose, because it will always, always be him—_

After all this time, there was certainly no sense in getting ahead of himself. Every time he pushed a little closer, let his love for the demon shine a little more brightly, Crowley shrank away in equal measure. His fault, he knew. He’d been feeding Crowley nothing but scraps for millennia. He’d been getting rebuffed and shot down for so long, it was no wonder that he wouldn’t be eager for more opportunities to garner further disappointment.

Once bitten, or something to that effect? The humans had some odd phrases.

Even still…going just a bit faster would be alright with him.

It just felt so _good_, so heady and soothing where it rested in his heart. Like the muzzy edges where Love and Lust met and created something entirely human. He was getting used to that kind of space these days, where his and Crowley’s natures tangled and brushed up against each other the way he wished their bodies—

Ah, it was all too easy to think of such things, when he had Crowley’s company day in and day out to look forward to. Thoughts of a most beloved demon walking up to him in the dark, leading him to the back rooms where other types of business could be conducted beyond taking care of the accounts. Long limbs spread out for him like a feast, enticing him closer, letting him _taste_…

“Angel?”

He let a shuddering sigh escape him, placed a delicate kiss on the forehead of the demon in his mind and turned to look at the one in reality.

There really was no comparison, when it came down to it. His imagination paled in comparison to the truth of his vibrant friend. Crowley watched him patiently, ever vigilant as he waited for whatever Aziraphale might say next, though the angel knew he’d left him alone here as he’d floated off into another world. He did that all too often and tried not to dwell too much on how apt that was for more than just their conversations.

_I love you desperately,_ he thought, feeling out how the words might taste if he spoke them aloud.

“It…well, I suppose it comes down to what I think of as art, rather than what humans see. Art like Banksy’s has a rather specific purpose, after all. The style may change over time, the message within it may be varied depending on the trials of the era. Many humans think of this as modern nonsense, just as past generations thought the same of new music, new art forms, new technologies.”

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “True, do you remember when the humans moved on from chamber music? Thought they might riot, at first.” He grinned. He thanked Someone almost daily that chamber music had died a painful, agonizing death.

Aziraphale giggled, and gazed fondly at the demon for a moment, wondering if perhaps he might make Crowley the subject of his paintings. If only his friend wouldn’t ask to see them later.

“Indeed. I know I don’t always keep pace with the times—don’t look at me like that! I’m well-aware of my own nature, thank you very much. But I do understand new things, or at least I try to. I might not partake, but I can certainly appreciate those who do. All that to say, this art is political, a way to send out a wake-up call to those who would remain asleep. And there has always been art meant for that. Just as there has always been art of divine speculation. Or nudity. Though, I rather think this century might be the closest humans have come to expressing something that feels like unfiltered lust. Some of the paintings I’ve seen on the street lately! It’s really quite erotic,” he mused, and jumped up when he got cocoa spat at him for his efforts.

“Ngk,” is Crowley’s truly inspired retort.

“Really, my dear! You nearly had my coat!”

“Sata—G—Someone’s _sake_, angel, warn a demon before you start waxing poetic about the erotic!”

“It’s art, for goodness sake! There’s nothing inherently wrong with it. The erotic is often forged with love in its many forms, and love falls directly under my job description,” he said primly, miracling away the stains on the rug. He paused a moment, wondering if maybe…perhaps now…?

Instead of returning to his chair, he tentatively sat on the couch near Crowley, breathing a sigh of relief when the demon made no comment on the change.

“You feel very strongly about all this.”

He couldn’t help but flinch a bit. There was no condemnation, no mockery, in Crowley’s voice, and it wasn’t fair of him to layer over those words with other voices, and yet—

“I…I just never…” He tried, he truly did. Instead, he had to dash away the bitter tears that had gathered despite his resolve.

“Hey, hey,” Crowley said, suddenly closer than before, leaning into his space just enough to catch his eye. “I didn’t mean it like that. Only that I imagine there are a lot of artists out there who were able to do their thing a little easier because they had an angel watching their back for them.” He smiled when Aziraphale inhaled shakily and gave a wobbly quirk of his lips.

“I tried to do what I could. We were so busy then, before the 20th century finally came around. And then it got somehow worse with the wars…even with the Arrangement, there was always too much to do and not enough time before the humans would move on to their next crisis. But an artist friend or two would always make me pause long enough to appreciate the details that they noticed. I knew so many who would say, ‘Look, Aziraphale! The lake and the mountains and the sky! Do you see that building, the way it decays so marvelously? That woman, that man, the play of the shadows over their skin! Do you see it?’”

Hundreds of faces and memories passed between them, so many talented and incredible humans had touched their lives. So many continued to do so now.

“And did you?” Crowley asked, his voice oddly tight. “Could you see it like they did?” When Aziraphale turned once more, Crowley was right there, close enough to touch. And oh, but the feeling of him this close, closer than they’d been in centuries…

Aziraphale took a fortifying breath and shifted closer, reaching out to brush their fingers together, to run his foot along Crowley’s calf. He bit back a moan when Crowley let out a small, wounded sound.

“No,” he admitted, hand coming up to play with a button on Crowley’s shirt, already dangerously open and inviting to his questing fingers. “I couldn’t see them as they did, because they were in love every time they painted. Sometimes it was fleeting, others would last long after the people themselves were dust. Sometimes it was love for the act of creation, or the subject, or the world at large. It didn’t matter, their love was clear on every canvas. It’s the same with writing, and poetry, and the meals we ate, and the plays we saw. It’s why I adore Freddie Mercury, though I didn’t get the chance to meet him the way you did. He loved beautifully, and recklessly. And _you_ love him, adore his music. You’re entirely correct. Love _is_ what makes it art, to me.” He wanted so badly to be fearless. Instead, he supposed, he must be brave. To continue onward in spite of the fear. He could only hope that Crowley wouldn’t hate him for it.

“But…” he whispered. “If they had been you, I think I would have made a very good painter indeed.”

His heartbeat was so loud and heavy it nearly drowned out Crowley’s whimper of relief, but Aziraphale was finally_ listening_.

Crowley’s mouth was gentle under his, as giving in this as he was in all other things. His hands clutched at Aziraphale’s waist, pulling at him until they were as close as the limited space allowed them to be. He opened his mouth, let the angel have his way and shove him back against the couch to climb over him. Aziraphale slotted his leg between Crowley’s and greedily drank down the sounds the demon made when he couldn’t help but push up against Aziraphale for a moment.

“Fuck, angel,” Crowley gasped when Aziraphale broke away to kiss the demon’s neck, peppering the long column of his throat with small bites, hands rucking up his shirt to touch fever warm skin. He soothed each mark with his tongue, delighting in the stunned, eager sounds his demon was making. He pulled away just long enough to look his fill, feeling dizzy despite not needing air. “Are you—are you sure? I mean, shit, I want—but I—it’s okay of course, if you don’t…I just don’t want to go too fa—”

Aziraphale leaned in once more and drew him back into a lingering kiss, just a simple one, but they were both still panting by the end of it. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who let their corporation have its way sometimes.

“The hell did you learn to kiss like that?” Crowley’s glasses were pushed up to his forehead, eyes glazed and his mouth apple red, temptation itself.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he huffed, grinning when Crowley did.

“You, angel, are an absolute tart,” Crowley hissed in his ear, letting his tongue flicker out to brush the shell.

Aziraphale hummed in agreement, before he slid off the couch to kneel between Crowley’s legs, gripping his calves to drag him forward and splay him wide in one sudden movement. He would admit to only a_ little_ smugness at the yelp of surprise.

“Holy shit,” Crowley breathed, letting his head fall back against the couch. “Holy shit, I’m going to die.” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes while Aziraphale palmed him through soft fabric, heated gaze devouring every bit of new skin exposed as he hooked his fingers into the waistband and dragged them down. “This is it, this has been your plan all along, hasn’t it? Thwarting wasn’t enough, now we’re at the smiting stage. Is it too much to hope that Hell will give me a proper memorial after stopping Armageddon? Here lies Crowley. No, he wasn’t killed in the Great Battle. Nope, he wasn’t obliterated by Holy Water and we’re all still very confused by that. Er, actually his poor heart finally gave out because an angel decided to suck his—holy _fuck_, Aziraphale!”

He curled inward, clutching at soft curls tightly, and wrapped his legs around the angel’s back to try and anchor himself. Aziraphale hummed happily, sending shockwaves through him. The angel cradled his hips to draw him closer, taking him deeper into his throat. He nosed at the soft curls around the base of the demon’s cock, his own erection ignored in favor of taking his beloved apart piece by piece.

Crowley panted harshly above him, tried to move from where he was bent double with his forehead pressed into Aziraphale’s hair. And then his angel drew away only to sink back down, and his ability to move was completely lost.

The wet heat of Aziraphale’s mouth was the most exquisite kind of torture. He pulled off entirely to kiss and lick at the head of him, eyes darting up to take in the wrecked expression on his demon’s face. He had been created to be a creature of worship, and he had every intention of demonstrating how _very good_ he was at his job.

Crowley flung an arm over his eyes, trying to last, to think of anything but the way Aziraphale’s tongue was making him see the stars he’d spun into existence. It was a hopeless venture from the start.

“Angel,” he moaned, hips shifting restlessly. “Angel, I’m…I can’t—” Aziraphale reached out to take his hands, laced their fingers together and let him hold tight as he fell apart with Aziraphale’s name on his tongue. His angel worked him through it, until the overstimulation was edging on unbearable, but he couldn’t pull away, afraid of what might happen when they stopped.

“Please,” he moaned, tightening his legs when Aziraphale pulled off with a satisfied little wiggle and an overwhelmingly smug smile on his face.

“Perhaps humans consider it a bit gauche, but I would like to take this moment to let you know that I am very much in love with you, in case you harbored any doubts as to what was going on here.”

“_Hell’s bells_, Aziraphale!” Crowley whimpered, tumbling down to push the other to the floor, cradling his head as he kissed him. Tasting himself in the angel’s mouth was too much, felt like getting everything he’d ever wanted in the most abjectly terrifying of ways, but it didn’t matter how scared he was, because—

“I love you, I love you, I love you, _I love you_,” he whispered, every ounce of yearning he’d ever felt poured into his words. He had belonged to this angel since the Beginning and he could hardly wrap his mind around Aziraphale answering him in turn, but not a single ‘I love you’ left his mouth without being guided back into the marrow of him. Into the empty place where everything from Before had once been. Every word reverently pressed into the space between desperate kisses. He hadn’t realized how starved he’d become until he was suddenly being filled with _too much far too much I need it please I need it toomuchtoomuchneverenoughmorepleasemore—_

“Oh, my love, I’ve kept you waiting so long.” It was mournful, his voice on the edge of trembling, but Crowley shook his head, and pushed his face into the soft curve where the angel’s neck and shoulder met.

“Never felt like waiting.” He wished he could be better at words, wished they weren’t always dancing away from him when he needed them most. Longed to say truthful things like _I’m an endlessly greedy demon who could never get enough of you, even if we merged into one being, even if I could crawl into your skin and never leave _and _I’d take anything you gave me because it was always enough, always more than I hoped for _but words like that felt useless when they seemed to contradict each other. They inhabited the same space in his soul, coexisting without ever clamoring over each other. Human language just simply wasn’t up to the task. Luckily, he’d never had to be good at words for his angel to understand him.

He tried to get his heart under control long enough to get his limbs working. He fumbled clumsily at Aziraphale’s belt, but gentle hands stilled his efforts.

“Let me take you to bed, first?” The angel asked and watched half a dozen desires flash across the other’s face.

“No,” Crowley moaned, gripping the lapels of Aziraphale’s coat, blindly seeking out his mouth for feverish kisses. “Right here, take me right here, don’t want to stop touching you, don’t want you to—”

_Leave. To have time to think about why you shouldn’t be doing this, why I’m not worth it._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed softly, tilting Crowley’s head back to kiss at his neck. “There will never be a place I don’t want to make love to you, and I’m sure there will be times when we won’t be able to make it to the bed, but you deserve better than some vaguely uncomfortable tumble on the floor.” He sat up slowly, running his hands through Crowley’s hair, cradling him close. “It’s old-fashioned, I know, but I rather like the idea of our first time being something to savor, don’t you think?”

Crowley nodded and breathed deeply against Aziraphale’s neck for a moment, still trying to comprehend a world in which his angel _said_ things like that with no hesitation in his voice. He stood, pulling Aziraphale with him, and they stayed there for a moment, holding each other among books and winged mugs and the space they’d carved out for themselves. He hoped to one day make something new for them, something new for them both, where he could make a new garden for them and gaze at his angel and his beloved stars in turn. Where Aziraphale could store his books, could learn how to paint again, could make his crepes and watch his favorite programs on the telly.

Perhaps a cottage near the coast.

But for the moment, this was more than enough.

Aziraphale took the first steps, this time, and Crowley let himself be led up to the rarely used room above the shop. It was a mess, but the bed had been cleared, and the moon filtered in unhindered.

He found himself carefully pressed against the door with Aziraphale’s mouth on his, and he reached between them to start undoing buttons between kisses, unsure of which belonged to who, only that they absolutely had to go.

His limbs wouldn’t cooperate, and he let out a frustrated hiss that turned into a gasp when Aziraphale forwent the buttons of his pajama shirt altogether, opting to slide his hands underneath, teasing just long enough to have Crowley whimpering into his mouth before he tugged the whole shirt off and let it drop to the floor.

He shoved a leg between Crowley’s as he leaned down to flick his tongue over sensitive nipples, drawing each one into his mouth until Crowley was writhing beneath him, rutting against his leg. He encouraged it, gripped the demon’s hips to pull him in closer, tighter, a waterfall of words flowing helplessly from somewhere he’d always been too afraid to seek out.

“My love, my darling, oh if you could see yourself right now. This is what they meant, what they wanted me to see. You could come like this, couldn’t you? And you’d be satisfied. I wouldn’t even have to touch you, you would kneel before me and beg for the sole of my shoe against you and you’d be grateful, wouldn’t you?” he whispered heatedly, pushing Crowley more firmly against the door, where he couldn’t be so deliciously _distracting_.

“Yes, yes,” Crowley panted, shivering when Aziraphale reached into his pajama pants to start stroking him and _fuckfuckfuck_ he was so wet already, precome dripping down the length of him from the words being crooned into his ear. “Anything, angel, whatever you want,” he pleaded, ready to sink to his knees and rut against the angel’s leg like a common dog if that’s what it took to have Aziraphale’s eyes on him, to have whatever attention he would give if Crowley could only be _good enough_.

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement, pulling away to walk Crowley backwards towards the bed. He watched in anticipation as Crowley sunk down, crawling back towards the pillows, offering himself up in a way Aziraphale had never quite dared to hope for. His arms reached for the angel, eyes unguarded and so vulnerable it was all Aziraphale could do to not look away, overwhelmed by the trust that was his to take despite letting Crowley down more times than he could count.

He took a deep breath, climbing in after the demon, to lay beside him and better take him in.

“So beautiful,” he said, letting his fingers wander across the sharp features of his beloved’s face. He brushed over each inquisitive eyebrow, the curve of a cheekbone, across the bridge of nose down to the perfect bow of his lips. Crowley caught his hand, his own shaking, to press a kiss to his palm, before he shuffled closer, hands beginning an exploration of their own. “Let me love you?”

“Fuck _yes_, Aziraphale, been wanting you to fuck me for so lo—”

_“No.”_

Crowley stopped touching him immediately, but there was no time for the fear to seep in before Aziraphale leaned up to kiss him again.

“No,” he said again, gentler, steel coated in silk, and command in his voice. He moved them to their sides, his front to Crowley’s back, and curled a strong arm under him to press their bodies together. He reached between them, and Crowley shuddered with a high keening sound when miracle-slick fingers slid into the crevice of him to tease at his rim. “I will not fuck you as if that is all you’re worth, my dear.

Crowley tried to scoff, but his heart was beating too fast to deny that he’d never been able to help thinking like that. It made things easier, to think of his angel only giving into another silly earth temptation. Nothing that could truly touch him, not like falling in love with a demon would. He wasn’t worth—

“You _are_, Crowley,” Aziraphale said emphatically, and the demon bit his lip against any more thoughts errantly spilling from his mouth. He did not, however, think to guard against the sudden shout that tore out of him when Aziraphale pushed a finger into him, pausing as he adjusted. “You are everything, absolutely everything to me. If I stood before the Almighty Herself and was asked to choose my future, it would always, unfailingly, be you,” he said into the soft skin of the demon’s shoulder. His thumb brushed at a dimple near the base of his spine while he worked at opening the other up, taking his time to run his nose along the line of Crowley’s jaw, to nuzzle at his hairline. The second finger went in easily, and Crowley splayed himself wider, begging the angel to _fuck him, please he needed it, needed him so badly, please just_—

“I will be apologizing for a very long time for ever making you feel as if you weren’t enough,” he vowed, another finger making the demon scream and nearly come again. “Such absolute blasphemy couldn’t be further from the truth.” He brought the arm caught beneath Crowley up against his chest, hand caressing the demon’s neck. He tilted him back until he could kiss the snake tattoo beneath his beloved’s ear. His fingers left Crowley’s body, and he shushed him when the demon protested the loss of them.

“My first act of penance will be making sure you understand that when we are together like this, we are making love. Whatever words we may speak in the moment are all well and good. _Very_ well and good, I do so love to hear you run that filthy mouth of yours, my dear, but at the core of it all, I love you more than the universe itself. More than books and good food and art, more than Life, more than Death, more than angels or demons or humanity or God, I love _you _above all else.”

He thought his point was quite soundly made when he tightened his hold and pushed slowly into his demon.

“Angel!” Crowley sobbed, trying desperately not to come immediately at being so filled. His body, his mind, his heart and soul, there was no space for anything but Aziraphale. “Please, G—Sa—Someone’s sake, angel please, please, _please_!” Words didn’t exist beyond that, beyond Aziraphale’s _my dearest, my treasure, my only love_, and he gave himself over to it. He was defenseless against the love pouring into him. There was no precedent, no way for him to build walls within his soul when it belonged to someone who knew how to guard it.

He wondered if the fact that he wasn’t burning from it all meant that this was part of her Plan after all. It should rankle with him, one who prided himself on being his own demon, but instead it felt like benediction. Felt like surrender and joy and creating the cosmos and the first time he drove his Bentley. It was home, wherever Aziraphale was.

_Do you love me?_ He’d once asked Her. She hadn’t answered him then.

He has his answer now.

_Thank you._ He whispered in his mind. _I’ll do my best to be worthy of him._

He felt them move, lost in the electricity coursing through him every time the angel brushed against that sweet spot inside him. He moaned in delight when Aziraphale’s warm weight settled atop him, pulling him onto hands and knees to drive deeper into him. “Yes, yes, _right there_, angel! Want it like this, want you to finish inside me like this,” he begged, not caring one whit how needy he sounded, not when Aziraphale was filling him so well and feeding words of love into his soul.

A hand came around to stroke him in time with each thrust, and he collapsed onto his forearms, one hand gripping the bedframe and the other clutching tightly to the sheets, trying to ground himself just a little bit longer, _just let me have this a moment more, please_—

Aziraphale’s breaths were hot against his shoulder, pressing open mouthed kisses there and Crowley had the sudden, irrational thought that he might wake up with freckles in the morning.

“I love you,” he whimpered into the pillow, reaching back blindly until Aziraphale took his hand, twining their fingers together and leaning over him to drive him down against the bed.

“Come for me, my love,” Aziraphale commanded, and Crowley was helpless to do anything but obey. He came hard over Aziraphale’s fingers, the slickness of it easing the way until he was spent and boneless in the other’s arms. He gasped when the angel pulled his hand from under their weight to brace against the sheets and chase his own pleasure.

“That’s it, angel,” he coaxed, breathless and trembling, overstimulation tightening him around Aziraphale’s cock. “Oh there, _fuck_—”

The angel only managed a handful of thrusts before he spent himself deep inside Crowley, the demon’s name ringing out into the still night air.

Neither dared to do more than breathe for a long while, the sound of it loud in the little room above the bookshop. Aziraphale finally drew himself up to pull out of the demon’s exhausted body. He started to stand, planning on finding a washcloth for them both, but the other reached out to guide him back down.

“Stay,” Crowley said, eyes hidden and sounding like he was trying not to ask for too much.

Aziraphale smiled softly, sank back down with a contented noise and pulled the blankets over them both. “As long as you’ll have me, my love. It will be terribly uncomfortable in the morning if we fall asleep like this though,” he reminded the other halfheartedly.

“Hnrg,” Crowley replied, uninterested in anything other than how warm he felt, sheltered under his angel. He sighed as arms wound around him and pulled him close. “You gonna sleep?”

“Unlikely, but I won’t leave the bed while you’re still in it.”

Always surprising him, his angel. He let his eyes wander over the precious face before him, allowed his fingers to take a similar path. His heart was soaring and there was no chance of it ever coming back down.

“Well, in that case, I’ll just never leave this bed again,” he said cheekily.

“I think not! I have a great deal of inspiration for my painting now, and I should like to start on it in the morning.” The no nonsense tone nearly distracted him. And people called _him_ wily.

“Inspir—oh, you _naughty _angel! Going to paint me like one of your French girls, are you?”

“You did love that movie, dear,” Aziraphale reminded him. “And I could most certainly make it worth the, er, Effort, as it were.” Crowley was doomed. He felt his cock twitch, and by the time he rolled them over, straddling his angel, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

“Again,” he breathed out, and laughed at the nearly affronted look on Aziraphale’s face.

“Really, dearest, right now? You’re absolutely insatiable!”

‘Hm, well we have to make sure the inspiration sticks.” He did like that movie, after all, and if Aziraphale was keen on small rebellions like Banksy and _that _scene, he wondered if they might re-create another memorable scene using the Bentley.

Just a thought, of course.


End file.
